Free The Fly Boys by T. E. Cruise

“Oh where, oh where could my little Jug be …?”
    “Cappy, this is Steve. Do I have permission to continue upholding the honor of the squadron awhile longer?”
    “What squadron would that be, kiddo?” Cappy demanded.
    “The … Double Vee Squadron, sir.”
    “The
what
?” Cappy persisted.
    Steve had to swallow hard before he could bring himself to say it. “The Vigilant Virgin Squadron, sir—”
    “Good enough,” Cappy laughed. “You’ve got my permission to show those webfoots what it means when a virgin says no!”
    “Roger that, Cappy,” Steve said.
    Now that the Jug was back up to 22,000 feet, she was again feeling her oats. There was a little less than a mile separating
     Steve from the Corsairs, which had come around to approach him head-on. He didn’t expect them to break; it was three against
     one, after all. He knew what they expected
him
to do: break sharply, either to port or starboard, and then they’d have him broadside in their sights. In real life he’d
     be a tough deflection shot for the Marines, but since this was a mock dogfight, all three webfoots would simply run their
     gun cameras and claim a “likely victory,” one that would counter the embarrassment they suffered over the waxing Steve had
     inflicted on the other Corsair.
    The webfoots were expecting Steve to break, because that was all a typical airplane was capable of doing, but the Double Vees’
     Thunderbolts weren’t typical. They had been factory equipped with an emergency water injection system that shot water into
     the engine cylinders, temporarily—
very temporarily
—increasing horsepower from 2,100 to 2,800, increasing the Jug’s top speed to about 470 miles per hour. The Corsairs were
     due to be fitted with the water injection system, but Steve was pretty sure that hadn’t yet happened; otherwise the pilot
     he’d just waxed would have used the system to try and save his tail.
    Steve and the Corsairs—still rushing toward each other —had closed the gap between them to-about a quarter mile. Again, if
     this had been a real fight, both sides would have begun firing by now, but gun cameras would have a problem clearly filming
     a head-on airplane at this distance. Steve still had a few seconds before the Marines could claim victory.
    He cut in the Jug’s turbosupercharger as he dropped into a shallow dive, offsetting the Jug to one side by banking hard, beginning
     his turn virtually beneath the Corsair’s noses. He held full throttle as he continued what amounted to an aerial U-turn. The
     Jug’s bones groaned in protest, and Steve’s vision dimmed as the G-force flattened him, but the maneuver worked. The Corsairs
     badly overshot him. The Marine pilots were sparing their bodies and their airplanes as they began a leisurely turn to come
     after him. They were obviously confident that in a tight dogfight their Corsairs were more than a match for the Jug.
    Surprise, surprise
, Steve thought as he came out of his U-turn well behind the tail of the last Corsair. Steve kept his throttle wide open as
     he activated the water injection system. The Jug howled like a goosed dame, and then the great silver airplane leapt forward.
     Steve glanced at his air speed indicator: 475 miles per hour! His pulse was zinging just as fast. He was going at least 50
     miles an hour faster than what the Corsairs were capable of doing. He barely had time to activate his gun camera before he
     overtook the first bluebird. He shot past it and got the next webfoot on film for a good five seconds before it broke away.
     He didn’t chase it, but went after the last plane; he wanted all four. Four fucking Marines waxed by one Army airman—he was
     going to be famous, assuming he wasn’t court-martialed.
    Steve’s finger was reaching to activate his camera on the last Corsair when “Break! Break!” filled his headset. He reacted
     automatically, veering off sharply, giving up the pursuit.
    Break
. It was the signal from a